Word of the Day
by Amorye
Summary: All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations.
1. Bullet

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hello! I'm starting this series with a twofold mission: first is for writing practice, and second is of course, writing more Fillmore! stories! I've just recently come back to watching it, and am a little frustrated at the lack of stories/material on it. I'll try to write as often as possible, in between real life stuff and the Playground (my other fic). But hey, thanks for checking this one out and I hope you enjoy it! :)

* * *

 **Bullet  
** _(noun) a small metal projectile used for various firearms, which may or may not contain explosives._

 _"Ingrid? Yeah, I'd take a bullet for her any day."_

It started off as an innocent question posed by Anza during one of their long life talks. But never did Fillmore expect that he'd actually be taking that statement _literally_.

It was an assignment they got fresh off the boat—they'd just been inducted into X High's Safety Patrol, and were instantly assigned to a case involving the paintball team and a bunch of sabotaged equipment. They were following up on a lead, when Fillmore noticed a hooded figure in the distance, loading up a paintball gun. He almost went for the perp when he realized that Ingrid was in the line of fire while she was examining the crate—needless to say, he chose Ingrid over the perp, and got shot on the leg three times. If that hadn't been bad enough, he'd also managed to fall down a short flight of steps—with a bunch of discarded wooden objects at the bottom.

"Fillmore!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"Go!" he screamed at Ingrid, as he clutched his leg. That _hurt._

She fell beside him and pulled out her walkie-talkie, "Anza, I need backup. Perp making a break for it in McRowan hall, ETA to end of hall two minutes!"

"Running now, over!" was his quick response.

"You good?" she asked.

"You think?"

She shrugged. "Sorry, standard operating procedure." She examined the small, paint-splattered tear in his jeans. "Three hits, all to your leg. All… really bad."

He grunted, and Ingrid called for a medical crew.

So now, he was sitting in the infirmary, wincing from the pain in his left leg, and the bruises he sustained from his fall.

Fillmore stared at the welts on his leg and cringed. They looked _nasty_ , the purple and red looking particularly unsettling on his skin. The perp probably tried to shoot at the sacks of flour on top of the crates, but unfortunately, he had _terrible_ aim.

"Hey," said Ingrid, leaning against the doorframe. "Anza caught him. He's facing double charges for not just sabotage, but also for armed hostilities. He's being sent to reform school, far as I know."

"He owes me one," he chuckled, shaking his head as he recalled Anza's question.

"What?" Ingrid said.

"It's nothing," he said, giving her a small smile of assurance.

"You okay?" she asked, shifting her weight from one foot to another. She knew it was a rhetorical question, but she needed something to quell her discomfort. Her partner literally took a hit for her, and now, he looked to be out of action for a while. And he _hated_ desk duty.

He nodded. "Don't worry about me. I do want to ask something, though. Why didn't you go after him?"

Ingrid managed a grim smile. "Couldn't leave the guy who said he'd take a bullet for me and keep his word."

He smiled. "No one more worth it than you."

"Well," she said. "I'm just glad it wasn't a real bullet."

He laughed. "Let's hope it never will be."

* * *

Ten years later, Fillmore found himself waking up in the hospital, a bandage on his arm.

Ingrid was sleeping by his bedside, her head lolling off to the side. He smiled.

"Ingrid," he called out, his voice hoarse.

She jolted awake. "Fillmore!" she exclaimed, and jumped to her feet. "Thank God."

"What'd I tell you, Third, I'm your everyday Mr. Indestructible." he said, grinning.

She glared at him. "If you weren't already hurt, I'd punch you in the arm."

Fillmore laughed. "Well, look who's concerned," he said, teasing. "And no, you can't. You already owe me an arm and a leg!"

Ingrid rolled her eyes, and sighed. "Really, Fillmore..."

"Hey," he said, grasping her hand. "I said I'd take a bullet for you any day."

"You're crazy. But thank you."


	2. Extemporize

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hey there! Thanks for reading the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this next one.

Just so you know, some of these words will be taken from To Write Prompts on Tumblr! Some words are randomly generated from sites I find around the web.

* * *

 **Extemporize  
** _(verb) to speak or perform with little to no preparation._

He never had a problem with words.

It was completely natural for him to speak. He found it no problem to extemporize—that is, speak with little to no preparation. It was easy for him to calm down the worst wrecks of victims, to use clever wordplay to sneak confessions out of tough suspects, and to say the right words to buy Fillmore more time when he needed to report to Vallejo—but when it came to her, he _never_ got the words out right.

At least, if he could _manage_ to squeak something coherent out.

Graduation was just weeks away. Work for the Safety Patrol, however, hadn't thinned out—even in cases involving graduating students. It seemed that they were either eager to leave a mark before going, or that they simply didn't care anymore. This resulted in days when Safety Patrollers had to do overtime to accomplish all the paperwork. And God, he _hated_ desk duty. What made it bearable, though, was seeing a certain someone who had also taken several of the late shifts with him.

She was probably one of the hardest workers around. People didn't give her enough credit for it—just because she was one of the best, didn't mean that she didn't work for it.

He shook his head, mumbling a line he rehearsed over and over last night, in the bathroom mirror. He'd practiced his facial expressions, his gestures, and his tone—yet, as he was sitting here in HQ, pretending to read over the dossier he should have finished reading an hour ago, he found that he _still_ couldn't muster up the courage to go up to her and say those _eight_ damn words that he'd been repeating like a mantra.

 _Will you go to the dance with me?_

He'd practice his approaches, his extra speech leading up to it—but still, he couldn't get it done. He'd been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, for about three weeks already.

A few people had already told him to just wing it. O'Farrell told him to just go for it.

 _"You're Anza. What could go wrong?" he said, shrugging, as he read another page out of the Pirates and Spaceships fantasy novel on his lap._

Vallejo, though already in junior high, seemed annoyed by his lack of confidence.

 _"Make like Nike and Just Do It, Anza," he said, in his usual brusque and straightforward manner. "You've done this a hundred times… this shouldn't be any different."_

Even Fillmore agreed.

 _"Dawg, you ask people tough questions every day and you can't ask a girl out?" Fillmore said, raising an eyebrow. "Go do it before someone else does!"_

He took a breath, and sank into his chair. _You can do this, you chicken_ , he thought, as he mentally slapped himself for feeling so hopeless about everything.

How hard could it be to ask her _out_?

 _I've done it so many times—but I just can't do it with her_ , he thought, as he slumped down even further. _Why, why, why?_

 _Click_.

The clock struck three-thirty, and with that, he heard her stand up—pushing back her chair with only the slightest sound, and unzipping her backpack. She shoved several items inside, and as she always did, she pushed her chair back into the table. He watched her walk down the aisle, moving gracefully towards the door.

Then, he stood up. Ever so slowly.

 _WhatthehellamIdoingwhatthehellamIdoing_ , he thought, panicking. He sighed, and stepped out into the aisle.

"Ingrid?" he barely croaked out. He _prayed_ that she didn't hear him.

To his surprise, dismay, and pleasure—she turned from her direction, and focused her large, emerald-green eyes on him.

"Hey Anza," she said, smiling.

"Hey…" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He pushed back a lock of his hair.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why are you talking so softly?" she asked, lowering her own voice.

He managed to chuckle nervously. _Pull yourself together!_ he chided himself, and noticed Fillmore leaning forward, out of the corner of his eye. "Well, I… I had a question for you," he said, clearing his throat, and cast a quick glare to a grinning Fillmore.

Ingrid shrugged. "Shoot."

He took a breath. He was _not_ ready for this. "Okay, so, uh… I know things have been crazy lately and everything, so I really hope that this question won't be completely out of line and all—especially since the counterfeit smoit bust just happened and because you're also thinking about honors and graduating—not that you need to worry so much, because you're graduating at the top of the class and because you're pretty amazing like that, so I was hoping to ask you something a little not related to school but you know… still related to school?" He let out a nervous laugh, as he noticed the confused expression on Ingrid's face.

"Uh… you were asking something?" she said, scratching the side of her left temple. _I messed up_ , he thought, cringing.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Ingrid," he paused, slumping his shoulders slightly, and staring at the floor. "Will you go to the dance with me?"

Oh _God_. He looked up, scared to see the expression on Ingrid's face.

"Anza… Joseph," she said, the corners of her mouth turning up. "Yeah. Why not?"

His eyes widened. "R-really?" he stammered.

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "Really."

"Okay…" he said. "I'll… call you later about it?"

She nodded. "I'll be waiting," she said, and walked over to the door. "Late," she said, turning back to him, and shooting him an oddly… flirty glance. "And Joe… you could've just asked me right away." She winked, and closed the door.

"WOO!" he exclaimed, as he threw a fist up in the air. His victory was short-lived, as Fillmore quickly cut in.

"Did you get her _new_ number?" he said, cocking an eyebrow, his mouth curving into a mischievous smile.

He froze. Then bolted out of HQ.

He probably didn't need to practice a full speech for this one—maybe he was just better off extemporizing.


	3. Tomorrow

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hello! Here's the next chapter. :) Not much of an author's note, though, lol.

* * *

 **Tomorrow  
** _(noun/adverb) the day after the present day._

"Karen Tehama, you do know that there's always tomorrow," said Anza, as he watched his partner, who was intently studying another specimen under the microscope.

Tehama grunted, and switched slides without looking at him. "I hate wasting an opportunity to finish my work, you know that."

He shrugged, smiling. "I know. It never hurts to remind you, though," he said, coolly brushing off a loose lock of his hair, as he observed her working.

Three years of partnership and seven years of friendship taught him so many things about Tehama. Not only that, but he also got to see how much she'd changed from the day that they first met. His lips turned up at the memory, as he looked back on that day, back in second grade.

She hated him that first meeting, when he'd made an innocent, boyish comment about how pink made her look like a sissy. She'd scorned him from that day on. Joseph was always part of the cool kids—the ones who always had the best new clothes and toys, the ones who always beat everyone in the classroom games and PE races—and Karen was part of the quieter crowd, the ones who preferred colouring their art pieces and building the best science experiments. Karen always ignored him, but he always tried to make the effort to be friends.

All that changed, though, when one of the class bullies had taken her share of the food during the class party, and left her without cake. She'd been bummed the whole day, but her day turned around when she looked up to a piece of chocolate cake, being held out to her on a shiny red plate. It was her favourite, and they'd been friends ever since.

He continued to watch her as she examined the slides. He had no idea what was so interesting about it, but he secretly (not-so-secretly, for the other patrollers) loved watching her work. She was relentless—nothing could stop her once she'd gained her momentum. And when she did, her face always lit up in the most peculiar, yet fascinating way. When things made sense, there was just something about the look on her face that made him smile.

It was like seeing the second-grade her all over again, when he'd handed her that tiny slice of chocolate cake.

 _"It's all I could get," he said, scratching his right temple. "Sorry it's not much."_

 _Her eyes were wide, and he bit his lip, scared that she might throw the food to his face. But to his surprise, she stood up and took the plate._

 _"Thanks…" she said, and took a bite. She smiled._

That was one memory he'd never forgotten.

"Are you just going to stand there, or can you help me with something?" she snapped. She _still_ wasn't looking up from her work.

"Yes boss," he said, jokingly. He pushed himself off the lab cabinets he had been leaning against, and propped himself in front of her working area. "What do you need?"

She looked up from her work (finally!), and observed him for a few seconds. Her long black hair was held up by a pen, in a casually graceful disarray that many other girls tried to pull off, but couldn't. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she tapped her chin. "Okay, I need you to help me sort out these slides," she said, pointing to a set she'd put to the side. "You'll need to fix them according to the location of the sample, then organize it by name, and—what are you smiling at?! Is anything funny?" she exclaimed, as he watched her partner's grin grow even wider, until he eventually started laughing.

"What is it?!" she whined.

"Nothing," he said, laughing. "You're just adorable when you're confused."

"That doesn't even make sense!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up.

"It doesn't have to," he said, as he held her arm, still wearing a sheepish grin on his face. "Time to call it a day, Karen. You've got a midterm in calculus tomorrow, remember?"

She frowned, and sat down on the stool on her side of the table. "Don't remind me," she muttered, pouting.

He raised an eyebrow, with a slight smirk on his face. "You're doing it again," he said.

"You are so annoying, you know that?" she exclaimed, crossing her arms. That stupid smirk…

"Well, you're stuck with me, you've got no choice," he said, sauntering over to her side. "Besides, someone's got to keep you focused enough."

"Are you saying I'm not doing a good job?" she said, her eyes narrowing.

"You are…" he said, stepping behind her seat, and holding her shoulders gently. "But there's a certain level of focus that's too much, ya dig?"

She let out a sigh. "Fine," she said, the annoyance evident in her voice. She let him pull her closer to him, and she leaned against him comfortably. That was… rather welcome.

She and Joseph always had their moments, but they never went beyond anything else. They'd never admit to anyone that they'd flirt with one another every once in a while, because they were "just friends." Their visible friendship was one that always showed a lot of love and hate at the same time—they'd tease and insult each other mercilessly, but they always made up with a good deal of tenderness and affection after.

 _"Me and Anza?" she scoffed. "That tomorrow will never come."_

Unsurprisingly, no one believed their claims.

"Hey," his voice broke her out of her thoughts. "You good?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said. She felt his hands stroking her arm, and she found herself leaning into the crook of his neck. Somehow, it felt good, and she hated to admit it, but it just felt _right_.

"You're too tense, you know," he said, his hands resting on her shoulders now. "After your midterm, how about I take you out to that cheesecake place you've been telling me about?"

She smiled. "Sounds good."

"One condition," he said, and stepped in front of her. His silvery-blue eyes peered down at her, and she couldn't help but notice how… different he looked. She didn't know whether it was because she'd been staring at her slides too long that she suddenly found him _attractive_ , or if it was because she'd never really bothered to notice before. Now she understood why a lot of girls went crazy over him.

"What?"

He took her hand, and for a fleeting moment, she felt a spark shoot up her arm

"Please do _not_ take this with you tomorrow," he said, as he fished out the empty glass slide she'd been holding the whole time. "Wouldn't want a piece of glass to divert your attention."

"From what?" she said, teasingly, a smile playing out on her lips.

"From me, of course," he said, grinning. "Come on, let's get you home. Tomorrow's another day."


	4. Space

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Just wanted to shout out to **Anonymous** , since I can't reply to your review! Thank you for still reading my work! I'm glad to be back, and I will be writing more. :) Thanks as well to **Tend to Infinity** for the lovely review!

And for everyone else still reading, thank you as well! I really appreciate that people are still into Fillmore!, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter. This was inspired by _Red Robins Don't Fly_. And also, by Excel's randbetween function, lol. I listed the words and randomized them. I've got a queue for around ten chapters already.

* * *

 **Space  
** _(noun) an area characterized by its availability for occupancy._

He smiled. Finally, a space he could call his own.

It had been a rough year. He'd loved, he'd lost, but things turned out for the better in the end. A new beginning was finally happening, and maybe this year, he'd be able to make some good changes for the force.

The empty office had just been cleaned a day ago, and he'd been working on placing his things there. He hung up the prized stuffed fish that he and his father caught a month ago, and stepped back, admiring the item. He hoped that it would serve as an inspiration to keep persevering throughout the year—especially when times got tough.

He expected that it would.

He turned to the box placed near the door, and pulled out a random item. When his eyes found the logo printed on the box, he gulped, and fought to keep the tears that stung his eyes from falling.

It was Malika's parting "gift" to him. It contained her sash, badge, and a short note—one that he'd read over and over, until the paper had creased more than tenfold its original state. The pencil lead smudged various parts of the white paper, with the now light grey, "I'm sorry. Good bye," still written on it.

 _"I need my space," she said. "I need to leave. I love the Robins."_

 _"What's in it for you, Malika?" he exclaimed, exasperated. "You're my partner, Malika, please, please don't do this."_

 _"Vallejo, please," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I don't belong to the safety patrol. I don't belong here. I belong with the Robins. They can make me happy. Please, just try to understand that."_

 _He let out a frustrated sigh. "Malika, I am, believe me, I really am trying."_

 _She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Vallejo. I want to do this. They make me feel whole. Happy."_

 _"So I haven't done that enough for you?" he cried, feeling as if he'd just been stabbed in the heart. He didn't need her to say it; he already knew he wasn't enough. But hearing her actual words made the pain twice as bad._

 _She took a deep breath. "No. You haven't. You never will."_

 _"Malika, please…" he started, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She shook her head._

 _"Good bye, Horatio," she said, pushing him away, before he could see the tears streaming down her face._

He'd written. He'd called. But she'd never gotten back to him. Not once. It was hard to accept, but he was forced to. Frank, the force's top profiler, was assigned to become his partner, on account of his old partner, Larry, a forensics guy, leaving the force. They were already friends, and worked well as partners, but he and Malika were just different together. They were _great_ , together. And being apart made him feel... empty. With Malika, he learned to love; to look out for someone without expecting something in return. But when she left, all of that disappeared. He became angry, he became guarded, and he became a man for himself. It wasn't right for a safety patrol officer, but he was frustrated with her selfishness. It made him selfish too.

Maybe that was also a reason why he'd also messed things up with Frank.

He should have fought for him. He should have defended him. Instead, he left him out to dry, in front of the entire school. The way Frank had looked at him as he watched from the window... it was something he could never erase from his memory. They'd never spoken again.

God knew how he'd be able to mend the damage he'd done.

And what—for this space of his own? Was it really worth it?

But that was another story for another day.

He recalled the terrible pain of being apart from her; it was the worst feeling in the world. The first few weeks were torture—he had to see the empty desk beside him, slowly being cleansed of her memory. The only things he had left of her were the name plaque sitting on his desk, and the box.

The box was clearly her good-bye and good riddance. Still, he loved Malika—there was no denying that. But he never found the courage to tell her how much he truly did. Every day, he'd read, and re-read the note she left him, and it took him a lot of his willpower not to run off to the Robins' territory and tell her he missed her.

And until now, he wasn't over her.

He sighed, deeply, and took the box to the empty file cabinet. He pulled open one of the drawers, and shoved the box into the furthest corner. He couldn't bring himself to toss it—it was the last thing he had that to hold on to.

Because even when she'd gone, she still took up a space in Vallejo's heart. It was a space he wanted vacated, but he couldn't bring himself to take her out of there. He wanted her out, but he _needed_ her there.

It was stupid, moping over someone who wouldn't bother giving him the time of day. But he couldn't fight it. It was a persistent feeling that refused to die down. Maybe locking it away might remove some of the pain. Locking her away still meant storing her there, but it also meant that at least, she'd be somewhere he couldn't reach.

He walked back to the box, and half-heartedly arranged some books on a shelf.

Even when he had this space to call his own, it was never completely his.

Malika said that she wanted her space. In Vallejo's eyes, she certainly had it.


	5. Lesson

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hi there! Thanks for reading. If you could spare me a bit of time to review as well, that would be highly appreciated! :)

Thanks to **EchidnaPower** for the recent review! I'll definitely continue writing this so long as I can!

Fair warning: this is a rather unconventional pairing (or implied pairing) for this chapter! I might be delving into more of those in the future, depending on the word prompt. The word reminded me of the episode where they interacted, so here you go!

* * *

 **Lesson  
** _(noun) a period or session for teaching and learning._

 _"Okay… what do you want?"_

 _"A lesson."_

"I swear, Ingrid, you're not helping me at all with my diet," groaned Karen, as she ruefully eyed the milk chocolate Godiva bar that Ingrid placed on her desk.

Ingrid winked. "True friends don't let friends diet. Can't let you miss out on the best chocolate in life, right?"

She rolled her eyes, and set her chin on her hand. They were juniors at X High, and it had been somewhat of a habit between Ingrid and Karen to have these little lessons at least once a week. She didn't know where it began, but it happened a lot, and had been going on for at least a year. Ingrid always had some good chocolate with her—somehow, she'd managed to bring Karen chocolate treats of every kind. She'd bring in Japanese Kit Kat flavours, Cadbury, Milka, Hershey's, Reese's, Lindt, Ritter Sport… and a bunch of others she hadn't even remembered to note down. She'd never had the same kind twice.

 _Must be pretty neat to have a photographic memory that'll make sure of that_ , she mused, as she stared at the chocolate bar again.

It was a neatly wrapped chocolate-raspberry bar in gold foil. It was also her favourite.

How Ingrid knew that, she didn't know, but she must have mentioned it one time.

Over these forensic lessons, Karen and Ingrid had gotten to know each other better as well. They were already friends in middle school, but never really went beyond their work friendship. Sure, they'd meet up once in a while to play cards or something, but they weren't particularly close. More so, because when they'd hit high school, Karen found other extra-curricular activities to occupy her time; she'd rediscovered her love of dance, and divided her time between the safety patrol and her contemporary dance troupe. Her work was mostly limited to forensic analysis and consulting. Ingrid, meanwhile, devoted her time and attention completely to the safety patrol, and she'd become one of X High's most decorated officers in a matter of two years.

Ingrid and Fillmore had, expectedly, ended up in a relationship during the beginning of freshman year. Unfortunately, the relationship became too strained, mainly because the two spent too much time together—apparently, their partnership suffered because of their relationship, and they almost ruined a case from being too affected by their own issues. They'd officially split up just three weeks ago, and hadn't talked about it since.

Karen, meanwhile, didn't end up with Joseph. They dated briefly during freshman year, but before they could pursue the relationship, he had to move back to Italy with his family. She dated around, but didn't find anyone that kept her interested long enough.

Not much love success for either of them.

"Just take it," said Ingrid, a coaxing look on her face.

She sighed. "Fine, what do you want?"

"A lesson," she said, smirking. "Today, I want you to teach me about _you_."

Karen raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Ingrid pulled over a chair from the other table. "Karen," she started. "We've been doing this for a while now, and while I _am_ enjoying all the lessons, I find that _you're_ the most interesting part of all this."

Karen stared at her. She really wasn't sure what to make out of this. Was Ingrid…? Only one way to find out. In retrospect, though, it made a lot of sense, seeing as to how they'd been becoming extremely close over the past months. They'd become each other's go-to person, with long chats happening at least once a week. And some days, the lessons would last a lot longer than they probably should have. A touch, here and there, often lingered more than necessary. Did she give off signs? Or maybe she was really just affectionate? Granted, she'd never thought about it, but now that this was happening… maybe there _could_ be something? This was new to her, and perhaps, to Ingrid as well.

"So… what do you want to do, exactly?"

"Meet me at the ice cream parlour, seven PM," said Ingrid, as she stood, and pushed back the chair. She smiled. "Just you and me."

"Okay…" said Karen. She'd just been asked out, and _that_ was what she said?

"Cool. Late," said Ingrid, and stepped out of the room. "I'll be waiting."

Karen shook her head, and took a breath. _What did I just get myself into?_ Karen had always had a thought about "experimenting", but never expected she would end up doing it with _Ingrid_ , of all people. She checked the clock, and seeing that it was already five PM, she decided that she ought to get ready.

Whatever this was going to be, she'd best prepare her lesson plan.


	6. Mistake

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hey there! Posting this next chapter since I've already had it written out.

Anyway, warning for this chapter is that it's a bit of drama, and deals with a rather sensitive issue, one that I hope I didn't touch on insensitively. And also, this might just be the longest chapter so far. I didn't intend for it to be this long, but I guess the words just went on.

Thanks for still reading, and I hope you enjoy this next one.

* * *

 **Mistake  
** _(noun) an act considered to be wrong; an error._

It was a big mistake.

He never really meant for any of it to happen to her. He didn't want her to take the blame. He didn't want her to feel the shame, enough that she had to run away. He didn't want glaring eyes haunting her, day and night, over something she had absolutely no involvement in. He didn't want to hurt her. Never.

But he did. He did.

Every day was difficult, at first. It was painful to see that look in her eyes every time he'd passed her. He couldn't say a word. She'd thrown herself at him, when things were revealed; begging him, _please, please help me_. But he stood there, his heart surrounded by a stone wall that refused to let anything, or anyone in. He had calmly taken her hands from his shoulders, and released them, with an " _I'm sorry_ ," that sent her out the door, tears streaming down her face.

That was the last he'd seen of her. He'd written her letters weeks after she moved. The letters were filled with apologies and regrets… and long portions where he said how he'd missed her and how he wished he could have done things differently. But a reply never came back to him.

Soon after, the letters stopped, and he'd already moved on. Because as the years passed, things got easier; either that, or that he learned how to numb out the pain. Things worked out for him, in the end. He made good things happen as the patrol sheriff in eighth grade and turned around the high school safety patrol in MacLuhan High during his two-year term. He was graduating with a sure admission to the University of Texas in Dallas, where he was planning to take up criminology.

But not for her.

When he'd gotten the message from her mother that she had tried to kill herself, he drove out to Louisiana the first opportunity he got.

"Thank God I never changed my number," he muttered, as he glanced back on the letter, which he'd placed on the passenger seat. It was going to be a long ride, and he needed the time to think about what he was going to say. He hadn't seen Emily in about six years. There was much to say, but he didn't know what he needed to say first.

That, and he didn't know if she was even going to listen to him.

He was only halfway there, so he decided to take a stop first to refuel and purchase snacks and a bottle of water. He walked into the convenience store, after he'd refuelled, and took some chips, chocolate, and a large bottle of water. He headed for the counter, when he noticed something on one of the shelves.

Cinnamon balls. He hated it, but he suddenly remembered how much Emily loved it.

 _I wonder if she still likes these_ , he wondered, and took a box. He paid for everything, and went on his way.

He called up Fillmore sometime after, and set his phone on loudspeaker. Somehow, he and Fillmore kept their friendship intact throughout all these years. He was the first one Wayne went to when Emily's mother's arrived. He was shaking, babbling on, and unsure of what to do. Fillmore had managed to calm him down and guided him to his decision to visit her.

"Wayne, dawg, how's it going?" came Fillmore's voice.

"I'm en route to Louisiana as we speak," he said. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Or say. I don't even know if she wants to see me."

"You did tell her mom you were coming, right?"

"Of course," he said. "Wouldn't want an unwelcome visitor."

"That depends on who's doing the welcoming."

"Fillmore," he said, groaning. "You're not helping make this any easier."

"Sorry man," said Fillmore. "Just… be sensitive. I was just as shocked as you were to learn about what happened to her. But Wayne, tell me something."

"What is it?"

"What exactly went down there? What made her leave?"

Wayne took a deep sigh. "I promise that I'll tell you when I see you. I… don't think I can handle talking about it right now."

"Wayne. Soon, you'll have no choice _but_ to talk about it. If you can't tell me, I can respect that," said Fillmore, whose tone of voice changed. "But you're going to have to face that dark past, and make sure that it doesn't hurt her any more than it already has. The same goes for yourself. The only way you'll ever move on from it, properly, is looking back and doing something about it."

"You're right. I just don't know if I'm ready."

"You'll never be more ready than you are right now, man. Just do it."

Hours later, Wayne arrived at the Kinzeys' residence. He pulled up, and parked a house after theirs. He took out the cinnamon balls, and stepped out of his car, walking towards the simple residence. The lawn was bare, save for a large tree in the front, but was well kept. He climbed the three steps to the porch, feeling his heart thump faster with every step he took. Finally, he took a breath and knocked on the door.

He heard quick steps from the other side, and the door swung open.

"Emily…" he breathed, eyes wide. She'd changed. Her light blonde hair had grown out to her shoulders, and she had certainly grown taller.

Her eyes were wide, and she stared at him, not meeting his eyes, for what seemed like hours. But when their eyes finally met, hers suddenly filled with tears, and she slammed the door shut.

"Go away!" she screamed.

"Emily please—" he said, his voice breaking. "Please, please just listen to me. If you don't want to see me, please at least listen to me."

"I'm done listening to you, I'm done trying to get over what you did, and I'm done with you. Goodbye, Wayne. Please just leave. I think you'll have no problem doing that, like you always do."

"Emily please, I never left you—" he pleaded.

"Don't lie to me. I came to you for help, but you left me out to dry. And now you have the nerve to come here…" he heard her sobbing on the other side.

"Please let me make this right," he said, as tears slid down his face. "I know I deserve all the hate in the world for doing what I did, but please, let me make things right for you."

"You're just doing this to get rid of your guilt."

"No… I want to fix things, Emily. I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have. Please let me fix my mistake."

 _Silence_.

"Emily?"

"Go home, Wayne. You came here for nothing."

He heard footsteps on the other side.

"Emily? Emily?!" he cried, frantically knocking on the door.

Minutes, maybe an hour passed, and he found himself slumping against the wall, beside the door. He hung on to the hope that she might come around. He hoped that she would.

Hope, he realized, was something painful. Something that was beyond just him—it relied on someone else. Hope, in that effect, then, was something that was a giving of yourself to the other person. And he wanted Emily to have that. She deserved that much.

He left her to take the blame for an accident that wouldn't have happened if he hadn't struck his shady deals back in the seventh grade. The safety patrol was corrupt, and an anonymous tipper kept giving him hot leads on almost all his major cases—providing that he did some sideline work—by giving them information about the school's layout, and giving them access to restricted areas of the school. Should he refuse, he would be sabotaged "in ways he would never imagine." So, he complied.

One day, a member of the organization reached out to Wayne, telling him that the group, which was called Conquest, had plans—plans that he felt were going too far. They were planning to use the school's secret basements as HQ as the area's ultimate underground counterfeiting business. Wayne told Emily a part of the truth, and she agreed to help him. But things went wrong during the investigation, and while they were caught, the group had been smart enough to frame the safety patrol, by spinning all evidence found towards a mole in the safety patrol.

When the dust settled, the group was suspended, and effectively disbanded. However, Emily was framed as the mole—Wayne had used _her_ phone and computer, because he wasn't allowed to have one just yet. Everything was traced back to her.

She was so upset that he had been part of such a shady deal. Worse, she couldn't prove his involvement because the evidence all pointed to her. No one believed her, even when she said she had absolutely no involvement in it. The group members didn't care about who gave the information—all that mattered was that they got it. They didn't reveal any information about Wayne.

And so, she moved. Being seen as a traitor to the safety patrol, and the school, was something she couldn't live with.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, but the door opened suddenly, and out came Emily, who sat on the other side of the door. He was shocked, but when he tried to move to walk towards her, the sharp tone of her voice cut him off.

"Don't move. Stay there. I can't bear to be with you. But I need this, for me."

He sighed, and nodded. "All right. Let me help you, please."

"I thought that the best thing was for you to leave me alone," she started, and he felt a tremor in her voice. "But I was wrong. I guess I needed you. I thought that blocking everything and everyone would help, but it just trapped everything inside me. So I did things, a lot of things, that I shouldn't have. Mistakes."

She was fighting the tears, but she continued to speak.

"I thought those were things that could help me feel alive again. Things that could make me feel. But I didn't feel anything but pain and hurt. I just couldn't let go, because everything was anchored to you." Her voice turned bitter, and cold. "It was you who destroyed everything for me. I don't know why it hurt me that much, but it did, and it still does. I haven't been well, and I won't be for a long time. All because you left me when I needed you most."

"Emily… I was stupid, and selfish, and that was the biggest mistake I've ever made. I'm sorry, Emily. I know that will never be enough, but I want to let you know that I want to help you become better. Even if I have to come out here every week to make sure you're okay, I will. I promise."

He heard her sniffling. "I don't trust you."

He bit his lip, and tried to prevent a tear from running down his face. "I made a mistake, Emily, something I'll never be able to live with. That will never go away. But I don't want you living your life like this because of what I did. I just want to help you move forward, even if it means being put through a lot of difficult times. Please."

She wasn't speaking. He glanced over to her, and saw she was staring in the opposite direction. Without making any noise, he crawled over to her, and gingerly placed a hand on her shoulder, which, surprisingly, she didn't fight off.

She turned to face him, and broke down, sobbing into his chest. He, instinctively, wrapped his arms around her, holding her thin, fragile body, in his arms, and soon, he found himself crying as well.

"Please… don't leave me again," she said, between sobs.

"Never… never again," he said, as he stroked her hair. "I will never make that mistake again."


	7. Lunch

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Just a little episode for this chapter! Enjoy. :)

* * *

 **Lunch  
** _(noun) a meal eaten in the middle of the day._

"Hey, Tehama, want to have lunch with me?"

She sighed, not looking up from her microscope. "Not today, O'Farrell."

"Well, okay, tomorrow then!" said Danny, without a hint of disappointment in his voice. She could even feel the happiness radiating from his voice, as if he were completely looking forward to tomorrow, where he seemed to imagine that she would accept his invitation for lunch.

Unlikely.

He'd been trying to ask her out to lunch, not once, not twice, but every day for the past year. Ever since Anza left for the UK, she'd been stuck with O'Farrell as her partner. She'd made it clear that she wasn't interested in becoming friends, that she just wanted to take things professionally, especially after her attachment to Anza once caused her a lapse in judgment—something she'd never had before.

Not that there was anything wrong with O'Farrell… it was just that she really wasn't interested in becoming friends. Sure, he was weird and awkward at times, and a major klutz, but he had some interesting and creative ideas—though most of them were just borderline insane. Plus points for his imagination, though. She'd pretty much lost hers.

Anyway. She had more important things to take care of right now, like finishing the analysis on the samples that Ingrid sent her. She needed to compare the samples to see which one contained a higher concentration of chlorine. They'd have their perp once the analysis was complete.

She heard the door close, and footsteps approaching her desk, but she just kept working.

"Maybe you should give the kid a chance, y'know," came a familiar voice. "He's been trying that out for a year, and you've never agreed."

"I don't do lunch," she muttered, and switched slides, without looking up.

"T, I know that, but come on, he's a nice guy, and he's genuinely interested to get to know you. He's known you for three years but he doesn't even know what your _real_ favourite colour is."

She looked up from her work, eyes dull. "There's nothing to know, Fillmore. And for the record, it isn't pink, it's red."

"I don't believe that," said Fillmore, leaning against her desk. "Well, the bit about having nothing to know. We're graduating in a month, and you're moving to California in three. You've got a store, and he's willing to listen. Give him a chance, please?"

She rolled her eyes. "What is it with leaving that justifies going out with him? And my story is my story, and I'll share it with whoever I want, thanks."

Fillmore sighed. "So you do have a story, like I said. Still, you could be more of a person, y'know… _people_ will miss you, Tehama. Your work won't. Make the most out of the time you've got here with us. I promise it will be worth it. What use is all this without the people to make it all happen, right?"

She groaned, and picked up her pink lunch box. She usually ate at HQ, but Fillmore was so _damn_ persuasive.

"Fine, Fillmore," she said, and stood up to a grinning Fillmore. "If you're wrong, you owe me a bar of Hershey's."

"And if I'm right?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

"You have the eternal satisfaction of convincing me to accept O'Farrell's invitation."

Fillmore shook his head, laughing, as he watched the door slam shut.

He was just _good_ at this persuasion game.


	8. Moon

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hi there! Here's the next chapter. I was a bit stuck on this one because of work, but here you go! Up to you to guess who the main character is. Hope you enjoy. :)

 _Warnings_ : This one is pretty sad, since it was inspired by Sam Smith's _Lay Me Down_. Deals with loss.

* * *

 **Moon  
** _(noun) a celestial body visible from the earth._

He was the kind of person who could move on easily. He'd long accepted that life was transient—that nothing in it was ever permanent, except the passage of time itself. He didn't get to that realization from nothing—he'd experienced his fair share of losses, many of which were people and things that had mattered so much to him. Life was cruel that way, but it was that way for a reason.

It taught people how to make the most out of the limited time they had on earth.

He tried his best not to make too many attachments. Years in his line of work reinforced that practice, because the missions he and his team became involved in had no guarantee of success. He'd lost comrades along the way; some of who had just began working in their special unit. It was heartbreaking to see how such talent and dedication eventually resulted to a cold body in a black bag.

It hurt to see people with so much idealism and potential to just die like that. Those who died quick deaths were lucky—he'd heard the stories of those who'd held out months at a time, returning back either as hardened agents—the kind whose eyes, which once held glimmers of joy, now held nothing but anger; or as empty shells of their old selves—those whose souls somehow dissipated from their very beings. He'd seen how months of field work could destroy the the people who had come into the unit, thinking they could make a difference for their families, their friends, and the world.

But this… this wasn't even supposed to happen. He was supposed to be protecting her from all of the dark dangers that the world had, but he'd failed even in that. Everyone he loved had to pay the price for who he was—because anyone who loved him would inevitably find himself or herself in danger.

He felt long-repressed tears stinging his eyes. He loved her, and in trying to protect her, she had died in his arms, carrying who he now knew to be his child.

 _There was so much potential for her. She was on the brink of doing something great, but someone had to end it all for her. And for what? A selfish cause._

It was nighttime, and a cool breeze gently brushed his face. He was the last one left at her gravestone, refusing to leave even when his long-estranged childhood friends had coaxed him to go and rest. They knew that he was cracking; that he was already torn up inside, despite how calm he was on the outside. There were some things he knew that he could never hide from them, and regrettably so.

Now, finally alone, he'd fallen on his knees, staining his dress pants with the fresh soil that covered her grave. He looked up at the headstone, reading the engraved epitaph on the cool, black marble.

 _"KAREN ALESSANDRA TEHAMA._

 _OUR BELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, AND FRIEND,_

 _MAY SHE ALWAYS BE REMEMBERED AS THE BEAUTY_

 _WHO SAW THE BEAUTIFUL IN EVERY MINUTE."_

 _She was also a mother_ , he thought, as he traced the golden letters of her name with the tips of his fingers.

He stared up at the sky, smiling faintly at a memory, as he caught sight of the full moon above him.

 _"There's just something so beautiful about the moon," she said, dreamily. "No matter how it changes in the sky, you'll always know how it's still the same moon among the millions of other bodies up there."_

 _He smiled, admiring her delicate profile. The night's glow accented her features, as she looked out, leaning on the windowsill of her balcony, and he'd pulled her into a gentle embrace._

 _"It always reminds me of you," she said. "No matter what happens, I know you'll always be you. And I take comfort in its constancy. Will you promise to never leave me?"_

 _"I promise, my love," he said. "I promise."_

He had no idea that that night would be the last night he would get to spend with her. He'd gone for an assignment that had lasted months, and then, he realized, that she was the target. Her work as a scientist had not gone unnoticed, and unfortunately, she'd paid the price for knowing too much.

He rarely cried, but today, he let himself do so, slumping against what was left of her on this earth. He wished he could lie down by her side, tell her things were going to be fine, and see that she was going to be all right. But that was never to happen again. He dried his tears, stood up, and glanced at her gravestone one last time, before touching his forehead to it.

"Loss is such a regular part of life," he mused, as he lightly traced his fingertips on the edge of the stone. "But somehow, despite how I've always expected it to happen, the pain I feel never gets any easier. I'll miss you, a lot. And the pain I feel always hurts in different ways—the ache in my heart when I realize that what was once there is there no more; there's also the weakness in my knees when I see a someone special removed from my life; and the tightness in my throat when I realize that there's nothing I can do to bring people back. It hurts. So much."

He looked up, trying to stop the tears from falling again, and blinked at the clear night sky for a few moments.

He sighed. "I will never see you again in this life. But until the time comes that I come to deserve to see you, and love you again, I will have the moon to remind me of you, and to keep your memory alive."

He paused, in his quiet, lonely speech. Now, unfortunately, was the time he had to utter the words that he feared saying to her from the very beginning.

"Good bye."


	9. Regret

_All you need is one word to begin a story. One-word prompts for a variety of pairings and situations._

Hey guys! Sorry it's been a while, but here's the next word prompt. Thank you to Leonas for this! :)

Hope you enjoy, and have a happy holiday. :)

* * *

 **Regret  
** _(noun) A feeling of sadness, repentance, or disappointment in a past action or event._

 _"What is your greatest regret?"_

It had been years since they'd last spoken. They'd broken up shortly after graduation, two years into their unstable relationship, knowing that they'd be continents apart and unable to mend the wounds that hadn't healed. It was the only logical step to take.

And here they were, two grown adults with peaking careers, out for a drink on a cold, winter night, at a secluded corner in the Irish pub that they'd come to favour during their senior year—mainly because they were never carded. And secondarily it was because of the wide selection of European beers that they'd become amateur connoisseurs of—or so they liked to think.

 _"_ _I don't know. I've never really thought about it."_

They'd been sitting in the booth for over two hours, him with his favourite Belgian Witbier and her with her favourite German lager over nachos, potato skins, and Shepherd's Pie. And both of them conversed, like they always did. They talked about anything and everything—like they hadn't broken up, and like they hadn't pointedly tried to ignore each other in the past ten or so years, aside from the obligatory "Happy Birthday" greetings they'd send each other every once in a while.

They'd refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room—and yet, they were just waiting on the other to do it.

 _"_ _I have. A lot."_

She had been traveling the world, giving out talks all around for being one of the most successful neuroscientists for someone her age. She'd come up with some game-changing discovery during her dissertation about sleep and better mental health. He couldn't understand everything she was saying, but he suddenly remembered the time when she was stressing out over what to do in the future. He remembered telling her that she'd come up with something amazing in the future—no matter what she would end up doing.

 _"_ _Oh, and why's that?"_

Meantime, he pushed through with a career in law. He took after his father, and his grandfather, working up the ranks. He was a paralegal now, and helping one of their firm's lawyers in a variety of cases. The biggest one was a murder trial coming up in two weeks, and he'd been busy gathering evidence from the local police. He'd also talked about how one of their wealthy classmates somehow ended up being involved in a drug ring, and how he'd secretly taken pleasure in getting him arrested.

 _"_ _It's because it's never left my mind."_

They'd downed at least two beers with a couple of tequila shots in between—terrible idea, he'd mused, as he was taking the third shot, for the morning hangover—and both of them had been slightly flushed, when something happened.

 _"_ _Tell me."_

He hadn't noticed it when they came in, but a glint of gold caught his eye. His jaw clenched, and she must have noticed it, because she reflexively shifted her gaze towards her ring finger—and raised her eyes just as quickly.

"Yes… I'm engaged."

He forced a small smile on his face, and gently placed a hand on top of hers—sending shivers down both their spines.

"Congratulations. I'm sure he'll make you very happy."

She let herself give a rueful smile. "I think he will."

He'd shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and took another sip of his beer. "Well, I suppose I should be getting you home. It… wouldn't be right for me to be spending so late a night with you."

"All right," she said, sounding slightly disappointed. "It's for the best."

 _"_ _The night I let you go. I… I never should have."_

They'd paid the bill—split, of course—and he started driving towards a place he knew all too well. It made some part of him ache—yet, the nostalgia wasn't entirely unwelcome.

"It's been a while since I've driven here," he started, and briefly glanced at her. "Remember Winterfest in junior year?"

She laughed. "How could I forget?"

 _"_ _You know that everything happened for a reason."_

"It wasn't me who decided to test my limits for the punch…" he said, smiling faintly at the memory.

She rolled her eyes. "Come on, I wasn't that bad..." she said, punching him lightly on the arm. The sudden contact almost made him jump.

"Oh, no. You were, you were. Remember how I had to carry you up to your room, and how your mother panicked that someone broke in, and that I was kidnapping you?"

She was laughing harder now. "And the police actually came."

"Good Lord… I don't think I could have ever looked at your mother the same way again after that."

 _"_ _I know. But rationalizing what happened doesn't make it hurt any less."_

They'd fallen into silence again after that—each suddenly finding the seeds to their long-ended relationship, and trying to resist growing the planted feelings. They hadn't disappeared entirely.

"It feels like a lifetime ago," she said, softly—and unconsciously, reaching towards the hand that was on his side, resting near the gearshift. He had the habit of driving just with one hand on the wheel. He didn't flinch as her hand found his.

Their fingers felt cold against one another—yet they'd never seemed to contain as much warmth.

"It does," he agreed, without taking his eyes off the road. "It does."

 _"_ _So why did you still do it?"_

They'd reached her home, and as he drove into the familiar driveway, he turned to her.

"Well, here we are."

She nodded. "Here we are."

"Good night," he said, giving her a small smile. "It was good to see you again."

"It certainly was good to see you as well," she said, her eyes shifting from him to the road. But she didn't make a move to step out.

 _"_ _Because we needed it."_

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She sighed, and he could have sworn that her eyes were shining with tears. But when she turned to him, she looked fine. "I… well… could you come inside for a bit?"

His eyes narrowed in confusion. After a few moments, he nodded, and killed the engine. He followed her inside, as she walked towards the home bar to get them both a bit of scotch.

 _"_ _But it was still a choice."_

"Nightcap," she murmured, handing one glass to him.

"Hey, I'm still driving," he joked.

"I know. That's why I have more," she said, smiling.

He took a sip. "So what's up? Is there anything bothering you?"

She took a longer drink from her glass, and moved closer to him. "I guess I just want to talk."

He felt his body react towards their sudden closeness. He knew this was wrong, but he… needed it. Not that he would ever admit that out loud—it was probably just the alcohol? "About what?"

 _"_ _It was yours and mine. Don't put this on me."_

"About the things we never did talk about," she said, placing her free hand on his waist. "I guess we just didn't try."

He gently placed her hand back to her side. He couldn't take advantage of her like this. His head was slightly spinning, but he was certain that he was thinking much more clearly than she was. She didn't exactly have the highest tolerance, and she certainly wasn't in the best state of mind to make proper decisions.

He had to be the responsible one. As he always was.

 _"_ _We could have tried harder."_

"We can't do this now," he said softly, as he took the glass from her hands and set it on the surface beside them. "You've had a lot to drink. Let's do this another time, please."

"No," she said, firmly. "Stop evading me. I can't take it anymore."

"Anymore?" he said, confused. Where did that come from? Hadn't she been the one to initiate—

His train of thought stopped abruptly as he felt hungry, longing lips claiming his own. Instinctively, his hands found their way to the small of her back, and he deepened the kiss… and just as quickly, pushed away.

 _"_ _Didn't I say_ that _before you decided to end things with me?"_

"I'm sorry. I can't do this," he said. "I have to go."

She caught his hand, and tugged sharply. "No. Stop fighting it. Stop fighting me."

"You're engaged—" he started.

"That is my business, and none of yours," she snapped.

"This is wrong!" he cried, forcing her grip on his hand to release. "Don't make me do this, please."

"Do what?" she said, darkly.

 _"_ _Then why didn't you stop me?"_

He felt tears prick the side of his eyes, and he blinked, trying to fight them off. "Tell you that I miss you. Tell you that I've never found anyone that could match up to you. Tell you that I could never forget." He paused. "Tell you that all these years… I've never loved anyone but _you_."

 _"_ _I couldn't."_

They'd made love that night. Slowly, tenderly, and passionately. Like they hadn't with their other lovers. Each kiss was filled with years of longing, and each touch was as electric as when they'd first had sex. They'd spent a while exploring the body they'd longed for in the past years, and as they came together, both had released the pent-up emotions they'd had—and breathing hard, whispered their words of love to one another—words they'd longed for.

 _"_ _Only you were ever able to make me stop myself from my stupid decisions."_

And they stayed up, talking until the sun finally rose—about the things they hadn't said. It was never about the hurtful things they'd said to one another, but about the beautiful words that they'd withheld from one another.

 _"_ _Then my failure is my biggest regret."_

"You haven't failed, you know," she said, absently stroking his face.

"I did. I once did. But it will never happen again. I will not fail you again."

"No, you will not," she nodded. "It is I who will. And that, my love, is my deepest regret."


End file.
